


youth without youth

by noctiphany



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Guilt, Light Angst, Pining, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiphany/pseuds/noctiphany
Summary: It used to make him feel younger, the way she was always bursting with energy and life.Now he looks at her and becomes conscious of every wrinkle and scar on his body, the silver hair on his head, the ache in his muscles and joints.If only, Reinhardt thinks as he watches her train, that was the only part of him that ached.





	youth without youth

It happens in Germany.

It would be sort of poetic if he thought about it. But he's not.

He's thinking about the way she looks when she laughs, flame-red hair backlit by the fire in the pub they're in. About the freckles on her cheeks and the ones on her chest that he can only see when she's in her workout gear, the top she wears that dips down low in the front. He's thinking about leaving her here and taking off, running away like a coward from the one thing he's ever truly loved.

He's thinking about how he held her in his arms minutes after she came into the world and what a terrible, horrible man he is.

  
  


:::

The next time is in France.

He's not drunk this time, but he wishes like hell he was. At least it might give him an excuse. She's patching him up after a particularly fun skirmish with some local scavengers and he tries to remember he wasn't always like this. 

Brigitte was his squire, his god-daughter, his best friend's child. He has always, always looked at her as something precious, a true blessing and gift to this world. He used to look at her and see a child, braids in her hair and dirt on her face, infecting everyone around her with her exuberance for life. It used to make him feel younger, the way she was always bursting with energy and life. 

Now he looks at her and becomes conscious of every wrinkle and scar on his body, the silver hair on his head, the ache in his muscles and joints. 

If only, Reinhardt thinks, as he watches her train, that was the only part of him that ached. 

  
  


:::

  
  


In Denmark, Reinhardt decides to stop thinking about it. To put it out of his mind.

As if it were that easy. 

But he is nothing if not a stubborn old dog and if he puts his mind to it and gives it his all, there is nothing he can't accomplish. 

And it would have worked. Reinhardt knows that it would have been hard, but ultimately he would've been able to suppress it. He's done it countless times before. It would have worked, except he forgot to account for one variable. 

He forgot to take into consideration that Brigitte Lindholm is not only beautiful, courageous, stubborn, and talented. She is also too smart for her own good. Or Reinhardt's, in this case. 

"You're being weird," she pokes him in the chest. She's been working on his armor and is covered in a light sheen of sweat, her fire-protectant cover-alls hanging from her waist, exposing the taut, defined lines of her stomach. "Out with it, old man."

It doesn't hurt, her calling him old. It does make his stomach turn. 

"I'm fine, sweetheart," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "This old dog is just tired."

He knows she doesn't believe him from the brief squint of her eye, but he's grateful that she allows him to turn and go without forcing the issue. She's always been good at that, knowing when to let go.

Reinhardt wonders where she got that from. It certainly wasn't him.

  
  


:::

Three months, six months, nine months, a whole year passes. Reinhardt manages to control himself for the most part. Most of the time he doesn't think about it. The times when he cannot, he tries to stay busy and not allow himself to be too close to her.

It's how he's handled these situations in the past. It's how he handled the one-sided devotion he felt for Balderich, his mentor and Captain, that he knew could never be reciprocated. It's a good strategy. Sensible. Logical. Rational. 

It works well. 

Until it doesn't. 

  
  


: : :

  
  


In August, they help eliminate more than half a dozen gangs in East Germany and celebrate by getting sloshed in a shitty pub with their comrades. 

Reinhardt doesn't realize they're where it all started for him until he hears Brigitte's laughter carry across the pub. When he turns to find her bright and cheery face through the crowd, he finds her already searching for his. Their eyes meet and Reinhardt smiles, raises his stein to her. 

Brigitte smiles back at him and Reinhardt orders another pint.

:::

They walk back to the shitty motel they're staying in after the rest of the soldiers head out. Reinhardt likes to stay as long as he can, make sure the kids know they've done well, let them celebrate their victories. But he's old and he's tired and after the realization had hit him, he'd drank far more than he'd intended. His physical abilities haven't been affected, but his awareness and observational skills are fairly impaired. It's why he doesn't like to get this drunk very often. Puts them at risk. 

It's also why he doesn't pick up on Brigitte's odd behavior, or notice how uncharacteristically quiet she is on the walk home. 

It's why he's not expecting it when she stares him dead in the eye in the middle of the motel room and pulls her shirt off over her head. 

"Bri-" 

"No. Don't say anything," She says, then closes the distance between them. 

Reinhardt Wilhelm is a seven-foot one inch, sixty-one-year-old Crusader and Overwatch veteran who has seen war and death and even more unspeakable atrocities. But this girl, this beautiful angel before him, fucking terrifies him. He can only watch, frozen in place, as Brigitte unbuttons her pants and slides them off as well. 

"Don't say anything," Brigitte repeats, pressing two fingers to his lips. "Don't. Just fuck me."

Reinhardt wants to protest, tries to, but then her mouth is on his, sweet and warm and soft, and in his stupid drunken state his lips part to welcome the kiss, to encourage it. And that could be because he's drunk or it could be because it's been so very long since he's been with anyone that he's simply starved for touch. 

Nonetheless, it doesn't excuse it. Nothing excuses the way his hand drops instinctively to the warm skin on the small of Brigitte's back, the way he cradles the side of her face with his other hand and kisses her back, kisses her slow and deep and with a longing that he knows cannot be mistaken. 

He wishes he could stop himself, but if he hadn't been drunk and hazy minded before, having Brigitte this close, kissing her plush, perfect mouth, would've done it. It's intoxicating in a way whiskey could never be. It's  _ affects _ him. It makes him irrational and impulsive, makes time go faster and slower at once, makes him forget that things like consequences and tomorrows exist. 

Everything after that first taste of Brigitte's mouth is a whirlwind. Reinhardt lifts her up so she can stop standing on her tiptoes and straining to kiss him, and she wraps her legs around him. The bed is only a few steps away, but the wall is right there, and she lets out a soft moan when Reinhardt presses her against it, the heels of her feet digging into his back. 

Her hand flies out when Reinhardt starts kissing her throat, knocking a vase on a small corner table over, but neither of them notice, and buries her hand in his hair when he kisses the swell of her breast. 

"Now," she pants, using her body to rub against his. "Need you  _ now." _

If before was a whirlwind, what happens next could only be considered a hurricane. 

Reinhardt feels consumed by his base urges, unable to fight them any longer. When Brigitte reaches down to push his trousers down and pull out his cock, he wonders if she feels the same way. 

_ Need you _

He means only to push her knickers aside, but he forgets his own strength in all of the passion and simply tears them off of her. 

_Need you _now

"Yes," Brigitte gasps, hands moved to Reinhardt's shoulders now, fingertips digging into the meat there anticipatorily. " _ Yes _ ."

Reinhardt grips her thighs, hitching her up the wall a bit higher, and then - 

Brigitte moans, moans like he's hurting her, moans like she doesn't want him to stop. She's clawing at him, grasping at him, his shoulders, his face, her fingers slipping into his mouth as he enters her, covering her mouth with her own hand to keep from screaming once he's finally all the way in. 

And Reinhardt - 

Reinhardt  _ aches _ . But in all the very best ways. Brigitte is so tight around him it's like his cock is in a vice. He wants to move, he  _ needs _ to move, but if he ever truly hurt her he would never be able to live with himself. He can do this. He can be patient for her. He - 

"F-fuck me," Brigitte gasps suddenly, a shudder breaking the words up. "Old man."

And as always, Reinhardt gives her what she needs. 

:::

" _ Fuck! _ "

The sounds Brigitte's making are driving Reinhardt crazy. He has a grip on her so tight he's worried about bruising in the morning. He keeps having to hitch her up as he fucks into her and there's sweat beading along his hairline and he doesn't know if he's going to last very long because she just feels so fucking  _ good _ . So perfect. He's been with countless men and women over his many years and he can't recall any of them feeling like this, like their body was made for his. 

At some point Brigitte had tugged his shirt off of him and her nails are dragging down his back, piercing his skin, and she keeps trying to muffle her moans into his shoulder, but he won't let her. 

"No," Reinhardt grunts the next time she tries, hitching her up and slamming her back against the wall, mouthing at the column of her throat as he pounds into her. She can't help but let it all out then, screams and moans and profanities that certainly aren't new to his ears, but sound filthy coming from her now that he's inside of her. 

He listens to the sounds she makes for him and decides from there what she likes and what she doesn't. He likes when her breathing turns quickquickquick and he can feel her heart pounding against his chest. He likes it when her legs  _ squeeze _ around him so tight and he can feel the velvety muscles inside of her clench around his cock. He likes it all, wants to stay like this forever, buried deep inside of her, but he can't. Her sweet, filthy noises and her hot, tight little cunt are getting to him. Reinhardt can feel it building inside of him, climbing higher each time she cries out from one of his thrusts. 

" _ Ah _ ,  _ fuck _ " she cries out when his thrusts become more erratic, his breathing labored and heavy against her neck. "Fuck, yes, come on, come on,  _ please _ ."

It's the  _ please _ that does him in, how soft and small it sounds coming out of her as he ruins her with his cock. He comes with a rumbling, guttural moan pressed into her hair, arms wrapped around her like a cage as he spills inside of her. Between them, her hand works her clit furiously, until she's arching beautifully and screaming loud and unashamed, her cunt clenching and spasming around his cock, milking him of every last drop. 

For a few moments, everything seems too quiet. Reinhardt can hear the squeak of the ceiling fan, the hum of the TV, their ragged breathing as they attempt to get it under control. It feels as sobering as having a bucket of cold water dumped over your head.

"Put me down," Brigitte finally says, somewhat hoarsely, after she catches her breath, so he does. 

Still just as frozen as before, Reinhardt watches as she picks up her torn knickers, her bra still halfway on, watches as she bends over to collect her top and pants. Then he watches her go into the loo and when she shuts the door, he isn't sure what to do. So, instead of continuing to stand there, frozen with fear and guilt, he turns out the lights and gets into his bed. 

When he hears the door open again, Reinhardt is facing the opposite direction. He listens as her footsteps pad across the carpet. He knows he should say something. He doesn't have any clue what that might be. 

Then he feels the bed dip behind him, feels the warmth of a young girl pressing against his back and placing a kiss on his shoulder. 

"Goodnight, old man," Brigitte murmurs, then pulls the covers up to her chin like she always does, and falls asleep next to him. 

"Goodnight, sweet angel," Reinhardt says. 

Just like he always does. 

Perhaps that's how things will stay between them; like they always have. Perhaps he was silly to worry so much, for so long, about consequences and tomorrows.

Only time will tell. 

At this moment, there is only one thing Reinhardt knows for sure. 

Brigitte Lindholm snores just as bad as her father. 


End file.
